For a moment he did not recognize Annabel. She asked the inevitable question, the one she knew Michelle was waiting to field like a quarterback anticipating the pass. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. The lace was family lace, easily recognizable. I had that coming. Goodbye. “That,” she answered, “is far easier to believe.
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